Classic Poem

Oh , for the hand to catch and bind
The mystic wailings of the wind,
And weave them intOharmonies,
Which like æolian melodies
Are made of light, and sun, and air,
And breathe of all things pure and fair.

How still the wood! No faintest sound
Breaks in upon the charmëd ground.
The reverend pines in silence all
Stretch toward the sky; and great and small
Upon their summits tapers bear,
As if to light some minster fair.
And the calm sun, from out the blue
Pierces the pine tops through and through,
Till every needle gleams with gold,
And on the ground lie gems untold.
Filled with delight, I breathe a sigh,
The answering pine-trees make reply,
A far-off sigh of sweet repose,
A breath, that softly comes and goes.
Again, again, that sigh I hear,
Far, far away, then drawing near
With added strength it rolls along;
The sigh becomes a mighty song.
Louder and louder swells the strain,
More rich and full, the deep refrain,
Until the tumult of the sea
Is added to this minstrelsy.

Then softer grown, a wailing moan,
Tells it is gone, and I alone.